WHEN  THE  FROST 

THE  PUNKIls 


2/04  4ND  OTHER  POEMS 

W5 
1911 


'*> 


PS 


W.5 


ONDON  BOOK  CO. 
224  W.  B; 
aendale 


WHEN  THE  FROST  IS 
ON  THE  PUNKIN 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

JAMKS    WIIITCOMB    RILKY 


WITH    PICTURES    BY 

WILL  VAWTER 


INDIANAPOLIS 

Til     . 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1911, 

BY 
JAMES  WHITCOMB   RILEY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


PHISS   or 

BRAUNWORTH    4    CO. 

BO3KBINDIR8    AND    PRINTtRk 

BROOKLYN.    N.    V. 


WHEN  THE  FROST  IS  ON  THE  PUNKIN 

WHEN  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder's  in 
the  shock, 
And  you  hear  the  kyouck  and  gobble  of  the  struttin* 

turkey-cock, 
And  the  clackin'  of  the  guineys,  and  the  cluckin'  of  the 

hens, 

And  the  rooster's  hallylooyer  as  he  tiptoes  on  the  fence; 
O,  it's  then's  the  times  a  feller  is  a-feelin'  at  his  best, 
With  the  risin'  sun  to  greet  him  from  a  night  of  peaceful 

rest, 
As  he  leaves  the  house,  bare-headed,  and  goes  out  to  feed 

the  stock, 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder's  in  the 

shock. 

7 


WHEN    THE    FROST    IS  ON    THE    PI' N KIN 

They's  something  kindo'  harty-like  about  the  atmusfere 
When  the  heat  of  summer's  over  and  the  coolin'  fall  is 

here — 
Of  course  we  miss  the  flowers,  and  the  blossums  on  the 

trees, 
And  the  mumble  of  the  hummin'-birds  and  huzzin'  of  the 

bees; 
But  the  air's  so  appetizin' ;  and  the  landscape  through  the 

haze 

Of  a  crisp  and  sunny  morning  of  the  airly  autumn  days 
Is  a  pictur'  that  no  painter  has  the  colorin'  to  mock — 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder's  in  the 

shock. 

The  husky,  rusty  russel  of  the  tossels  of  the  corn, 

And  the  raspin'  of  the  tangled  leaves,  as  golden  as  the 

morn ; 

The  stubble  in  the  furries — kindo'  lonesome-like,  but  still 
A-preachin'  sermuns  to  us  of  the  barns  they  growed  to  fill ; 
The  strawstack  in  the  medder,  and  the  reaper  in  the  shed ; 
The  bosses  in  theyr  stalls  below — the  clover  overhead ! — 
O,  it  sets  my  hart  a-clickin'  like  the  tickin'  of  a  clock, 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder's  in  the 

shock! 

8 


WHEN  THE  FROST  IS  ON  THE  PUNKIN 

Then  your  apples  all  is  getherd,  and  the  ones  a  feller  keeps 
Is  poured  around  the  celler-floor  in  red  and  yeller  heaps ; 
And  your  cider-makin'  's  over,  and  your  wimmern-folks 

is  through 
With  their  mince  and  apple-butter,  and  theyr  souse  and 

saussage,  too !  .  .  . 

I  don't  know  how  to  tell  it — but  ef  sich  a  thing  could  be 
As  the  Angels  wantin'  boardin',  and  they'd  call  around 

on  me — 
I'd  want  to  'commodate  'em — all  the  whole-indurin' 

flock- 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder's  in  the 

shock  1 


WET-WEATHER  TALK 


IT  hain't  no  use  to  grumble  and  complane ; 
It's  jest  as  cheap  and  easy  to  rejoice. — 
When  God  sorts  out  the  weather  and  sends  rain; 
W'y,  rain's  my  choice. 

Men  ginerly,  to  all  intents — 

Although  they're  apt  to  grumble  some — 
Puts  most  theyr  trust  in  Providence, 
And  takes  things  as  they  come — 
That  is,  the  commonality 
Of  men  that's  lived  as  long  as  me 
Has  watched  the  world  enugh  to  learn 
They're  not  the  boss  of  this  concern. 
10 


WET-WEATHER  TALK 


With  some,  of  course,  it's  different — 

I've  saw  young  men  that  knowed  it  all, 
And  didn't  like  the  way  things  went 
On  this  terrestchul  ball ; — 

But  all  the  same,  the  rain,  some  way, 
Rained  jest  as  hard  on  picnic  day; 
Er,  when  they  railly  wanted  it, 
It  mayby  wouldn't  rain  a  bitl 

In  this  existunce,  dry  and  wet 

Will  overtake  the  best  of  men- 
Some  little  ski  ft  o'  clouds'll  shet 
The  sun  off  now  and  then. — 

And  mayby,  whilse  you're  wundern  who 
You've  fool-like  lent  your  umbrell'  to, 
And  ivani  it — out'll  pop  the  sun, 
And  you'll  be  glad  you  hain't  got  none ! 

It  aggervates  the  farmers,  too — 

They's  too  much  wet,  er  too  much  sun, 
Er  work,  er  wait  in'  round  to  do 
Before  the  plowin'  's  done: 

And  mayby,  like  as  not,  the  wheat, 
Jest  as  it's  lookin'  hard  to  beat, 

12 


WET-WEATHER  TALK 


Will  ketch  the  storm — and  jest  about 
The  time  the  corn's  a-jintin'  out. 

These-here  cy-clones  a-foolin'  round — 

And  back'ard  crops! — and  wind  and  rain! — 
And  yit  the  corn  that's  wallerd  down 
May  elbow  up  again ! — 

They  hain't  no  sense,  as  I  can  see, 
Fer  mortuls,  sich  as  us,  to  be 
A-faultin'  Natchur's  wise  intents, 
And  lockin'  horns  with  Providence! 

It  hain't  no  use  to  grumble  and  complane ; 
It's  jest  as  cheap  and  easy  to  rejoice. — 
When  God  sorts  out  the  weather  and  sends  rain. 
W'y,  rain's  my  choice. 


THOUGHTS  PER  THE  DISCURAGED 
FARMER 

THE  summer  winds  is  sniffin'  round  the  bloomin'  locus' 
trees ; 

And  the  clover  in  the  pastur  is  a  big  day  fer  the  bees, 
And  they  been  a-swiggin'  honey,  above  board  and  on  the 

sly, 

Tel  they  stutter  in  theyr  btizzin'  and  stagger  as  they  fly. 
The  flicker  on  the  fence-rail  'pears  to  jest  spit  on  his 

wings 

And  roll  up  his  feathers,  by  the  sassy  way  he  sings ; 
And  the  hoss-fly  is  a-whettin'-up  his  forelegs  fer  biz, 
And  the  off-mare  is  a-switchin'  all  of  her  tale  they  is. 


THOUGHTS  PER  THE  DISCURAGED  FARMER 

You  can  hear  the  blackbirds  jawin'  as  they  foller  up  the 

plow — 
Oh,  theyr  bound  to  git  theyr  brekfast,  and  theyr  not 

a-carin'  how ; 
So  they  quarrel  in  the  furries,  and  they  quarrel  on  the 

wing — 

But  theyr  peactabler  in  pot-pies  than  any  other  thing : 
And  it's  when  I  git  my  shotgun  drawed  up  in  stiddy  rest, 
She's  as  full  of  tribbelation  as  a  yeller-jacket's  nest ; 
And  a  few  shots  before  dinner,  when  the  sun's  a-shinin' 

right, 
Seems  to  kindo'-sorto'  sharpen  up  a  feller's  appetite ! 

They's  been  a  heap  o'  rain,  but  the  sun's  out  to-day, 
And  the  clouds  of  the  wet  spell  is  all  cleared  away, 
And  the  woods  is  all  the  gretner,  and  the  grass  is  greener 

still ; 

It  may  rain  again  to-morry,  but  I  don't  think  it  will. 
Some  says  the  crops  is  ruined,  and  the  corn's  drownded 

out, 

And  propha-sy  the  wheat  will  be  a  failure,  without  doubt ; 
But  the  kind  Providence  that  has  never  failed  us  yet, 
Will  be  on  hands  onc't  more  at  the  'leventh  hour,  I  betl 

16 


THOUGHTS  FER  THE  DISCURAGED  FARMER 


Does  the  medder-lark  complane,  as  he  swims  high  and  dry 
Through  the  waves  of  the  wind  and  the  blue  of  the  sky  ? 
Does  the  quail  set  up  and  whissel  in  a  disappinted  way, 
Er  hang  his  head  in  silunce,  and  sorrow  all  the  day? 
Is  the  chipmuck's  health  a-failin'? — Does  he  walk,  er  does 

he  run? 
Don't  the  buzzards  ooze  around  up  thare  jest  like  they've 

allus  done? 
Is  they  anything  the  matter  with  the  rooster's  lungs  er 

voice  ? 
Ort  a  mortul  be  complainin'  when  dumb  animals  rejoice? 

Then  let  us,  one  and  all,  be  contentud  with  our  lot; 
The  June  is  here  this  morning,  and  the  sun  is  shining  hot. 
Oh !  let  us  fill  our  harts  up  with  the  glory  of  the  day, 
And  banish  ev'ry  doubt  and  care  and  sorrow  fur  away ! 
Whatever  be  our  station,  with  Providence  fer  guide, 
Sich  fine  circumstances  ort  to  make  us  satisfied; 
Fer  the  world  is  full  of  roses,  and  the  roses  full  of  dew, 
And  the  dew  ic  full  of  heavenly  love  that  drips  fer  me 
and  you. 


THE  CLOVER 


O  OME  sings  of  the  lily,  and  daisy,  and  rose, 

^     And  the  pansies  and  pinks  that  the  Summertime 

throws 

In  the  green  grassy  lap  of  the  medder  that  lays 
Blinkin'  up  at  the  skyes  through  the  sunshiney  days ; 
But  what  is  the  lily  and  all  of  the  rest 
Of  the  flowers,  to  a  man  with  a  hart  in  his  brest 
That  was  dipped  brimmin'  full  of  the  honey  and  dew 
Of  the  sweet  clover-blossoms  his  babyhood  knew? 

18 


THE    CLOVER 


I  never  set  eyes  on  a  clover-field  now, 

Er  fool  round  a  stable,  er  climb  in  the  mow, 

But  my  childhood  comes  back  jest  as  clear  and  as  plane 

As  the  smell  of  the  clover  I'm  sniffin'  again ; 

And  I  wunder  away  in  a  bare-footed  dream, 

Whare  I  tangle  my  toes  in  the  blossoms  that  gleam 

With  the  dew  of  the  dawn  of  the  morning  of  love 

Ere  it  wept  ore  the  graves  that  I'm  weepin'  above. 


And  so  I  love  clover — it  seems  like  a  part 
Of  the  sacerdest  sorrows  and  joys  of  my  hart ; 
And  wharever  it  blossoms,  oh,  thare  let  me  bow 
And  thank  the  good  God  as  I'm  thankin'  Him  now ; 
And  I  pray  to  Him  still  fer  the  stren'th  when  I  die, 
To  go  out  in  the  clover  and  tell  it  good-bye, 
And  lovin'ly  nestle  my  face  in  its  bloom 
While  my  soul  slips  away  on  a  breth  of  purfume. 


SEPTEMBER  DARK 


I 

THE  air  falls  chill ; 
The  whippoorwill 
Pipes  lonesomely  behind  the  hill 
The  dusk  grows  dense. 
The  silence  tense ; 
And  lo,  the  katydids  commence. 

20 


SEPTEMBER    DARK 


II 


Through  shadowy  rifts 

Of  woodland,  lifts 

The  low,  slow  moon,  and  upward  drifts, 

While  left  and  right 

The  fireflies'  light 

Swirls  eddying  in  the  skirts  of  Night. 

Ill 

O  Cloudland,  gray 

And  level,  lay 

Thy  mists  across  the  face  of  Day ! 

At  foot  and  head, 

Above  the  dead, 

O  Dews,  weep  on  uncomforted ! 


21 


WHEN  EARLY  MARCH  SEEMS  MIDDLE 
MAY 

WHEN  country  roads  begin  to  thaw 
In  mottled  spots  of  damp  and  dust, 
And  fences  by  the  margin  draw 

Along  the  frosty  crust 
Their  graphic  silhouettes,  I  say, 
The  Spring  is  coming  round  this  way. 

22 


WHEN    EARLY    MARCH    SEEMS    MIDDLE    MAY 

When  morning-time  is  bright  with  sun 
And  keen  with  wind,  and  both  confuse 

The  dancing,  glancing  eyes  of  one 

With  tears  that  ooze  and  ooze — 
And  nose-tips  weep  as  well  as  they, 
The  Spring  is  coming  round  this  way. 

When  suddenly  some  shadow-bird  . 
Goes  wavering  beneath  the  gaze, 

And  through  the  hedge  the  moan  is  heard 

Of  kine  that  fain  would  graze 
In  grasses  new,  I  smile  and  say, 
The  Spring  is  coming  round  this  way. 

When  knotted  horse-tails  are  untied, 
And  teamsters  whistle  here  and  there, 

And  clumsy  mitts  are  laid  aside 

And  choppers'  hands  are  bare, 
And  chips  are  thick  where  children  play, 
The  Spring  is  coming  round  this  way. 

When  through  the  twigs  the  farmer  tramps, 

And  troughs  are  chunked  beneath  the  trees, 
And  fragrant  hints  of  sugar-camps 
Astray  in  every  breeze, — 
23 


WHEN    EARLY    MARCH    SEEMS    MIDDLE    MAY 

When  early  March  seems  middle  May, 
The  Spring  is  coming  round  this  way. 

When  coughs  are  changed  to  laughs,  and  when 
Our  frowns  melt  into  smiles  of  glee, 

And  all  our  blood  thaws  out  again 

In  streams  of  ecstasy, 
And  poets  wreak  their  roundelay, 
The  Spring  is  coming  round  this  way. 


24 


GRIGGSBY'S  STATION 


PAP'S  got  his  pattent-right,  and  rich  as  all  creation ; 
But  where's  the  peace  and  comfort  that  we  all  had 

before  ? 

Le's  go  a-visitin*  back  to  Griggsby's  Station — 
Back  where  we  ust  to  be  so  happy  and  so  pore! 

The  likes  of  us  a-livin*  here !     It's  jest  a  mortal  pity 
To  see  us  in  this  great  big  house,  with  cyarpets  on  the 

stairs, 
And  the  pump  right  in  the  kitchen !    And  the  city !  city ! 

city ! — 
And  nothin*  but  the  city  all  around  us  ever'wheres ! 

25 


GRIGGSBY'S  STATION 


Climb  clean  above  the  roof  and  look  from  the  steeple, 
And  never  see  a  robin,  nor  a  beech  or  ellum  tree! 

And  right  here  in  ear-shot  of  at  least  a  thousan'  people, 
And  none  that  neighbors  with  us  or  we  want  to  go  and 
see! 


Le's  go  a-visitin'  back  to  Griggsby's  Station  — 
Back  where  the  latch-string's  a-hangin'  from  the  door, 

And  ever'  neighbor  round  the  place  is  dear  as  a  relation  — 
Back  where  we  ust  to  be  so  happy  and  so  pore ! 


I  want  to  see  the  Wiggenses,  the  whole  kit-and-bilin', 
A-drivin'  up  from  Shallor  Ford  to  stay  the  Sunday 

through ; 
And  I  want  to  see  'em  hitchin'  at  their  son-in-law's  and 

pilin' 

Out  there  at  'Lizy  Ellen's  like  they  ust  to  do ! 

26 


GRIGGSBY'S  STATION 


I  want  to  see  the  piece-quilts  the  Jones  girls  is  makin' ; 
And  I  want  to  pester  Laury  'bout  their  freckled  hired 

hand, 
And  joke  her  *bout  the  widower  she  come  purt*  nigh 

a-takin', 

Till  her  Pap  got  his  pension  'lowed  in  time  to  save  his 
land. 


Le's  go  a-visitin'  back  to  Griggsby's  Station — 
Back  where  they's  nothin*  aggervatin'  any  more, 

Shet  away  safe  in  the  woods  around  the  old  location- 
Back  where  we  ust  to  be  so  happy  and  so  pore ! 


I  want  to  see  Marindy  and  he'p  her  with  her  sewin'. 
And  hear  her  talk  so  lovin'  of  her  man  that's  dead  and 

gone, 
And  stand  up  with  Emanuel  to  show  me  how  he's 

growin', 
And  smile  as  I  have  saw  her  'fore  she  putther  mournin* 

OIL 

28 


GRIGGSBY'S  STATION 


And  I  want  to  see  the  Samples,  on  the  old  lower  eighty, 
Where  John,  our  oldest  boy,  he  was  tuk  and  hurried 
—for 

His  own  sake  and  Katy's, — and  I  want  to  cry  with  Katy 
As  she  reads  all  his  letters  over,  writ  from  The  War. 

What's  in  all  this  grand  life  and  high  situation, 

And  nary  pink  nor  hollyhawk  a-bloomin'  at  the  door  ?— 

Le's  go  a-visitin'  back  to  Griggsby's  Station — 
Back  where  we  ust  to  be  so  happy  and  so  pore ! 


